Simmons struggled to take stock against the pain. His left leg was useless but he managed to scoot around and take a look at the situation. He could see nothing but a slow-moving wall of muzzle flashes that stretched about 50 meters end-to-end. The Cubans intended to roll them up, but they were taking their time about it. They’d been hurt sufficiently in earlier engagements and that was enough to make them cautious. Simmons and his surviving Raiders had a little time. What they didn’t have was good options.
“We’ll hold here, Mark.” Simmons gritted his teeth so hard against the pain in his left hip and leg that he tasted blood. “Contact the Gunner—we’re gonna need some help.”
They had the IBS bobbing in the surf line, waiting for the Raiders to arrive, when the call came over the radio. “
